Branches in the puddle on the sidewalk
dark against the pale face of the sky
broken pictures of a broken world
windows to a place like mine
but not the same
I wonder – do they cry there?

The wind, it leaves the flowering branches crying
raining down their life over my face
little echoes of what I was made for
pieces of a near, dear place
but far away
I wonder – would I know it?

Later, I woke to the sounds of voices coming from just outside my room. With great effort, I managed to stand and walk to the door, leaning against the doorway for support.

“We cannot keep it here, Durant,” a low, gravelly voice said. “And we all know what happened with your last little “find”. Excuse me for saying so, but I’m just a little irritated by the fact that we could all be murdered in our homes. And you would stand by and let it happen!”

“Now, Faylin…” Durant began soothingly.

Outside the cave, the moon was shining in a sharply-defined half-circle, midway through its monthly sequence. The stars were somewhat dim, as a thin layer of fog rose from the Denwold trees. An owl called out eerily off to the north; and the soft cheeping of the tiny tree frogs echoed over Thraluic’s clearing.

In the moonless dark of the cave, the large, solid shape of the dragon breathed softly, his eyes flickering behind scaly lids in the midst of draconic dreams.

I have been inside this dark cocoon for far too long.
Outside I hear the rustlings and the murmurings of song.
They seem to be inviting me to leave behind the night -
To unwrap from the shadows and be anointed by the light.

What started as a simple "write-whatever-comes-to-mind" poem turned into much more, naturally. :) My family had just gotten voice-recognition software, but it wasn't used to our voices yet. I read the song "Into the West" (from LOTR) into it, and it started coming out with this poem. So I changed some of the words to fit what I wanted, but left most of them intact, which is why some of the phrases may seem a little odd. But that's the point.

Guess what everybodeeeeee!!! I am bringing the Doohinkles back! I don't know why, but I was reading them and I was wondering why I stopped! So.....

MRS DOOHINKLE: Dearest me, Mr Doohinkle.

MR DOOHINKLE:What happened? Did Louie find a slipper-shaped chocolate?

MRS DOOHINKLE:Quite wrong. He just loves get well baloons.

MR DOOHINKLE:Then whatever is the matter?

MRS DOOHINKLE:Fred wants to go to summer camp.

MR DOOHINKLE:I tell you, that kid gets odder everyday. I do so love picture frame parades.

Chapter the Eleventh

Have you ever seen a poodle chase his tail?
His gaping jaws and panting seem to wail:

“I must get it! I must have it! It is Mine!”

The curly pom-pom bobs just inches from his nose,
The wobbly circle whirls faster as excitement grows,
Stumping loose-jointed limbs and furry feet,
Trying desperately to make both ends meet.

“Must must get it! must must have it! It is Mine!”

“I love the writing life,” was the last sentence I wrote in my journal before I went to sleep last night. And it’s absolutely true – most of the time. Of course, if you flip back through the earlier pages of my journal, you’ll find at least three or four entries declaring my complete frustration and disgust with writing and everything pertaining thereunto. Those entries are absolutely true as well. Which made me start thinking: if I really love writing, why do I get so frustrated with it? If I really hate it, why do I devote so much time and energy to it?

Sound of a harp
Fairy strings
Hidden elfin choirs sing
Songs unheard by men take wing
Music of a moonlit forest

Song of colors
Drops of rain
All the heavens in a soaring refrain
For which to listen would be in vain
Music of the rainbows

Medley of smiles
Trusting eyes
A guardian angel's lullaby
A sweet little face turned up to the sky
Music of a child's love

Symphony of wonder
For all to hear
Song of laughter, song of tears
All creation singing clear
Music of all beauty